


The Queen of Hell

by ObliObla



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Christmas, Demons, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-09-27 12:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17161625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: Chloe was dead, to begin with.





	1. Descent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleTwoLegs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleTwoLegs/gifts).



> For Luciferischloesmorningstar and The Deckerstar Network's Naughty or Nice Holiday Exchange.
> 
> The prompt was 'Queen'.
> 
> I got sick right before Christmas, so the rest of this will be up soon. I know this is pretty angsty, but I promise everything will be ok at the end. I hope you like it!

Chloe was dead, to begin with.

She laughed at the absurdity of it—or at least, she thought she did. It was hard to tell, when you no longer had corporeal form, what _precisely_ you were doing. Or feeling, to be honest. She imagined, as she stared down at her own bloody corpse, her insubstantial feet loitering around her kidneys, that she was probably sad. But it was very difficult to say, really. Someone, somewhere was screaming, but it was cutting in and out like a badly tuned radio. Her gaze caught on the small bottle clasped in her hand and the ethereal wispiness that used to be her heart clenched. Trixie was…

_Trixie_.

She dropped to her knees as her hand sank into her own hair. Trixie had been sick and miserable and they’d been completely out of cough syrup. Chloe had found a still open bodega mere blocks from the apartment—some kind of Christmas miracle, she’d thought. And now she lay, flat on her face, death grip on the gun she just hadn’t raised quickly enough, dead as a doornail.

Dead as her dad.

Her dad. That was a nice thought. Maybe she would see him. Was that a thing in Heaven? Surrounded by family who surely wouldn’t do anything bad enough to be sent somewhere… warmer. And, well, _she’d_ never done anything bad enough for that. Right? That was alright then, wasn’t it? Everyone would be there.

_Everyone_ , except…

They hadn’t talked in, what? Six months? And now…

She stood back up, looked around. Wasn’t something supposed to happen? A white light to walk towards, a friendly voice offering a comforting hand… even a robed skeleton with a shining, deadly scythe. She should have asked him, before. But _before_ , she wouldn’t have believed him. Wouldn’t have even listened, not really. And now she’d never hear him again.

She blinked.

There was a rustling noise coming from everywhere and nowhere, and a gentle breeze that pushed her hair back from her shoulders. She thought she might’ve heard a whispered, “I’m sorry,” before the store dissolved and her world went black.

*   *   *

“Tell me, what do you desire?”

Lucifer grinned at the beautiful man under his thrall. Christmas was not, generally speaking, in his vocabulary and Lux, of course, remained open. A subtle palette change toward red and green had been his only concession to the holiday. The young man he’d chosen blinked, blushed, and smiled helplessly. “I…”

“Yes?” He tugged him in closer. Their hips brushed tantalizingly.

“I want Jake back!”

Lucifer pulled away, nose wrinkling. “ _Oh_. Your… ex?” he asked, despite himself.

He nodded. “He… we…” He sighed, then shook his head. “But you don’t want to hear about that.” He seemed to struggle with himself for a second before deliberately pressing against him, but Lucifer caught at his waist and disentangled them, missing the warmth but trying not to let himself get swept away by….

He cast about for a distraction. A change in topic. _Anything_. “Drink?” he asked, finally.

“I… sure?” They settled together at the bar. “I’m Nick, by the way.” He held out a hesitant hand.

“Lucifer Morningstar,” he replied, taking the proffered hand.

“Yeah, I…” Nick bit his lip. “Actually, you’re why I came.”

“Well then,” Lucifer said, taking a sip of his whiskey. “What can I do for you?”

He shivered, fingers tightening on his glass. “I wanted to forget, I guess. But…”

“But?”

He stared at the shiny surface of the bar blankly. “I’m not sure I’m… ready for this, you know?”

“I think I do, actually.” Nick looked over at him, surprised. Lucifer tried to bury the bitterness in the smoothness of the alcohol, but he could taste it sharp and cruel as ever as he continued, “Six months and I still…” Why was he telling this to anyone, let along some stranger? But he couldn’t stop the words from falling from his traitorous tongue. “Her laughter is the worst, I think. I’ll be right on the edge of sleep and I’ll hear the little snort she makes when I’ve properly amused her.”

Nick frowned at his drink. “H-he tastes like clove cigarettes and cheap gas station coffee and sometimes…” He drained his glass, slamming it down onto the bar clearly harder than he’d meant to. “When he smiled at me, it made me feel like maybe I wasn’t alone anymore.” He glared glumly at the empty glass. “I was an idiot.”

“What did you…?”

“I relapsed,” he admitted quietly, barely audible over the music. “We met in the program. He would’ve understood. I _know_ he would’ve, but then I… _lied_ about it anyway. Stole stuff. I don’t know why I…” He ground his palms into his eyes. “No, that’s not true. I was _ashamed_. Or I missed my old crowd. I… It was easier, I guess. _Simpler_ being… who I used to be. And then, he found out and… that was that.” His gaze turned toward Lucifer. “What’d _you_ do?” he asked, brave on vodka tonics.

“I lied about what I was.” He sighed. “I thought if I pretended to be who _she_ saw, everything else would just… go away.” He closed his eyes, seeing her shocked and horrified face in the lids, as he always did these days. “I was wrong.”

He looked up at Nick’s pained but still lust-glazed eyes. He wanted to take that hurt away; he wasn’t so much fallen that he didn’t still feel the angelic impulse to _heal_. Especially when he thought of her. But… “I can’t be what you need from me. Not today.” He stood, intending to head for the elevator, but stopped at the hand on his elbow.

Nick was standing, mostly steadily. “Merry Christmas,” he said, guided by some strange human impulse. He took a deep breath and made to turn away, but Lucifer stopped him.

“Call him,” he said, shortly but not unkindly. “Tell him _everything_. And don’t… don’t give up hope.

“There is too little in this world to waste.”

*   *   *

The penthouse was cold.

Lucifer threw his jacket over the back of the couch. He poured himself a drink before settling at his piano, running his fingers indecisively over the keys. There was a whooshing sound from behind him. “I didn’t realize celestials were celebrating Christmas now,” he said into the silence. “Forgive me if I lack a certain amount of holiday—”

“ _Lucifer_ …”

He stood abruptly, turning on his heel. Azrael blinked at him from near the balcony, wings held tight against her back in… fear? What could scare the angel of death?

“What’s happened?” he asked warily.

“Look.” She bit her lip. “Don’t do anything rash.”

“What. Happened,” he repeated.

“I was just doing my job, ferrying souls, and…”

“Azrael,” he growled through gritted teeth. “You’re going to want to get to the point.”

“I didn’t want to,” she muttered to herself. “I didn’t have a _choice_.”

“What did you _do_ , sister?” he hissed.

She sighed. “Chloe’s… dead.”

She might have said more, but he couldn’t hear, wasn’t… _there_ anymore. There was only the driving wind and the enveloping flames and the endless, _endless_ Fall. When he’d retained some sense of reality, he found himself kneeling on the ground, trembling. “Where?” he managed eventually, rising back to his feet “Where is she?”

Azrael frowned. “She’s in Heaven. There’s nothing you can—”

“Where?” He leapt forward and grabbed her by the front of her shirt, pulling her up to meet his flashing eyes. “The body. Tell me.”

“I… a bodega on 30th near their apartment. But you _can’t_ —”

There was a flash of white feathers, and he was gone.

*   *   *

Was this what Heaven was supposed to be like?

Maybe Chloe had seen too many movies, but there didn’t seem to be any pearly gates. No choirs of fat baby angels sitting on clouds with golden harps. No angels at all.

Nobody, actually.

Instead, she was standing on a cobblestone street while mist swirled around her and snow settled in her hair. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering against the strange, bone-deep chill. Her nose twitched as a snowflake brushed it. She reached up and wiped at it, blinking at the streak on her palm. It wasn’t snow, but ash, falling in endless waves from the black and featureless sky. The landscape resolved itself. She was surrounded now by high stone walls; the doors inlaid in them rattled as screams emanated from the darkness at the edge of her vision. She heard laughter behind her. “Little lost soul,” the voice mocked. “How did you escape your Hell?”

Hell.

Right.

She turned. The… _demon_ was short, with small horns that curled out of its unkempt hair. It clutched a knife that looked like a less impressive version of one of Maze’s blades as it smiled unpleasantly, flashing its pointed teeth. She reached instinctively for her gun, but her fingers only scraped against the denim of her jeans. “What are you doing?” it asked, eyes narrowing.

“I…” Her brain stuttered, but then a series of images flickered in her mind: Lucifer smirking at her as he adjusted his cuffs, gazing down at her before he leaned into her kiss, standing over Cain’s corpse, staring at her with anguish in his red eyes, skin raw and flayed. “I know your King,” she said, breathlessly. “He… he wouldn’t want me hurt.” She hoped that was true.

“ _You_ know Lord Lucifer?” It looked almost convinced for a moment, but then it snorted. “A pathetic lie. Unoriginal too.” It brandished the knife, stepping closer.

“No, it’s… I’m telling the truth.”

“Prove it, then,” it hissed.

“I don’t—”

“What is his preferred form of torture? His favored weapon? Where does he like to stand and listen to the screams of the damned?” She sputtered. It chuckled. “Thought so.” It reached for her but, sensing an opportunity, she dived for the knife, scrambling at the shining metal. It toppled under her, scratching at everything it could reach. She managed to wrench the blade from its hand.

She clambered to her feet, panting, and ran.

*   *   *

Some part of Lucifer hadn’t believed it, _couldn’t_ believe it. But there was no denying it, not now that he could see the empty shell from which the brightest soul he’d ever known had shone. He could brush the hair from Chloe’s face, could cover the bloodstains with his sheets as he sat on the edge of the bed trying not to look into those vacant eyes, but he couldn’t look away. Couldn’t pretend that they still held life.

He stroked her cold cheek with his numb fingers, waiting for the pain and the wrath and the deep sorrow to overtake him. He had tried to rage when he saw her body lying, discarded, on the linoleum, had tried to cry as he carried her limp form in his arms. But there wasn’t enough of him left for that, was barely enough for him to grip at her hand, rest his head against her shoulder.

He’d never held the regard for dead flesh that humans did but in this, as in all things, she was the exception. Soon enough, even this ignoble remnant would rot and decay. Deprived of her life for the rest of eternity, he would cling to her death for as long as he was able. That portion of him that had first doubted—that had pushed for rebellion—wanted to war with Heaven, to tear down the gates and claim her soul as spoils, but he’d destroyed her happiness too many times. He wouldn’t do it again. War always, _always_ had casualties. It had taken him far too long to learn, and he would never let himself forget.

He shivered as a lonely draft slipped through the room. He laughed then, cold and hollow. He’d thought this _place_ was home. That the glass and steel and stone were what made him feel whole for the first time in his too long life. It was all ash, now. Less than, even, for ash still retained the memory of what it once was, and _this_ was truly meaningless.

Beatrice, Daniel, Penelope… their faces flickered through his mind. Linda, Ella, Maze… He ought to go to them, comfort them and seek comfort in return, grieve as they did, in _their_ world. Where death was inevitable. They wouldn’t know what had happened. Wouldn’t know Chloe was…

No.

He was a selfish creature at heart, after all. The monster in the tower was allowed to keep the maiden away from the world in the fairytales. If he’d just done a better job at it, she wouldn’t be… He shook his head. Some part of him wanted to go back to Hell—he’d hated it, but at least there he wouldn’t be surrounded by these cruel reminders of her life.

But he couldn’t abandon her now as he’d done before, so he lay down, curling around her form, trying to hold death’s cold hands at bay.

*   *   *

Chloe was still running.

Her panicked steps echoed distortedly from the walls that ebbed and flowed like waves, engulfing her and pulling her into the riptide. The doors, as she cut around corners and down narrow passageways, whispered to her, promising, threatening. Though she was running harder than she ever had in life, she couldn’t feel her heart pounding; there was no stitch in her side and no burn in her muscles. The hazy disconnectedness called to her mind as well, but she pushed it away, tightening her bleeding fingers around the knife. She hissed from the pain, but it cut through the fog and, for a moment, her mind cleared. She saw a great, twisted edifice that towered over the corridors. It looked forbidding, but anything had to be better than this tangled labyrinth.

She turned toward it, but a high stone wall stood in her way. Yet even before her eyes the rock withdrew and an intricate archway appeared. The path through it led straight to the immense ebony doors. She eyed the doorway suspiciously, but before she could consider the odd shimmer that danced at its edges, she heard the demon scampering behind her, screaming for backup. She couldn’t risk a fight with a demon, especially as injured as she was, so she dived forward, knife held in front of her…

She stumbled through the elevator doors, nearly tripping over the threshold. The penthouse was bathed in shadow and golden light, reflecting from every surface. Music echoed through the room, dissonant but still hauntingly beautiful. She walked forward, shuffling, as if entranced.

The moonlight glinted from his ring as his flayed fingers flowed over the keys. He was so familiar and yet so alien she could hardly stand it. Her feet carried her to the bench. The music stopped and he turned, gazing up at her with those burning eyes, flickering with sorrow.

“Why?” he asked, though his lips were still. The ivory was smeared red and shining.

“Why?” he said again. Insistent.

He rose. The bench creaked as it was pushed back. He stood over her, looming in a way he never had, before. Blood streamed steadily from his fingers, ran thickly from the wounds on his face. His eyes flashed.

“WHY?”

And she was falling, backward, into darkness.

Into nothing…

She stumbled through the elevator doors, nearly tripping over the threshold. The music was louder, strident, and as she listened it quickened, growing more frantic. More desperate. And she was drawn forward again, a thread in her heart pulling her to him. The song ended abruptly with a harshly dissonant chord. The bench screeched violently as he stood, landing at her feet with a shudder.

“Why?” His mouth was a thin, pained line. A particularly nasty burn on his neck wept, blood soaking into his collar.

She found her voice. “But I don’t… I didn’t… _I_ hurt you? I… did _this_?”

His hand reached for her but stopped suddenly, trembling in the air. “Why?” he muttered, plaintively. A sanguine, pearlescent drop slipped from his extended finger. She watched as it fell and fell and _fell_ …

She stumbled through the elevator doors and froze, hearing his aching voice, tasting the warm iron and the cruel, sharp salt. And the song. The _song_ …

> Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling
> 
> Do you feel my heart beating
> 
> Do you understand
> 
> Do you feel the same
> 
> Am I only dreaming
> 
> Is this burning an eternal flame?

His eyes were dying embers, blood dripping from his cheeks like falling tears. “Why…?” he whispered, broken, barely audible over the gentle music.

“I was afraid,” she said. He flinched, eyes flaring. She stammered. “N-not of you! I could…

“I could never be afraid of you.”

He stared at her, fingers stilling. But she was staring at her own hands. Blood was streaming, hot and viscous, over her knuckles, down her palms. “I… I hurt you,” she managed, eventually, watching the red blooms paint her wrists, her arms, dragging her down. But she had to… “And I n-never…” She frowned, tearing her gaze away from herself, meeting his eyes—strange, terrifying even, but always, _always_ familiar.

“I’m sorry, Lucifer.” She watched his eyes darken to their normal warmth, the corners crinkling with his smile, and the world darkened with them.

*   *   *

Lucifer lay, wrapped around Chloe’s cooling corpse, for _God_ knew how long—and He could’ve helped, could’ve saved His little miracle, but He wouldn’t; of _course_ He wouldn’t—clinging to her hand, trying to press his heat into her icy fingers. An uncommon sound dragged him from his torpor. Rain was spattering against the windows, a cloud of mist rolling through the gaping balcony doors. Beatrice had told him once that rain was angels’ tears—he had corrected her, barely concealing a sneer—but he couldn’t deny that the tears _were_ coming now, hot where they fell against her paling skin. He jerked his hand away from hers, intent on wiping away the evidence of his pitiful powerlessness, but her arm dragged against the sheets with the motion, fingers stiff and unyielding around him.

He extracted himself from her, careful to not break the fragile bones though he knew it didn’t matter— _did matter. Mattered more than anything_. Her arm dropped woodenly onto the bed and suddenly he couldn’t… He couldn’t stay here with this cruel mockery of her, couldn’t watch her flesh melt from her bones and certainly couldn’t watch the humans stuff her body with strange chemicals before dumping it in a hole in the ground. He was weak, he knew, but he couldn’t see his Chloe—and she _wasn’t_ his, but he hadn’t the strength to beat back that belief—buried in ignoble dirt when she deserved… more. Better.

_Everything_.

He stood abruptly, then stooped just as decisively, pressing a kiss to her forehead before extending his wings, disappearing into the rain.

*   *   *

Chloe burst through the great stone arch like she’d been thrown, falling against the massive doors. Screams sounded from all around her as she pushed desperately against the strange material. But it wouldn’t budge.

She looked up, gaze catching on the chain wrapped around the latch. She reached up and jumped for the lowest link. She caught the cold metal and pulled, bearing her weight against it, leveraging more force with her feet pressed against the doors. The metal screeched as the chain wrenched down. The demon reappeared around a corner flanked by two huge black dogs, eyes gleaming red. She pulled harder still and the motion knocked her to the ground, chain in hand. She scrambled back to her feet, shoved the doors apart and slipped through, slamming them closed behind her.

She pressed her back against the inside of the doors, panting. She heard the demons reach the door, the hounds growling and the imp cursing. But they didn’t touch the doors, seemed reluctant to even approach them. She waited as long as she could manage to stand, before staggering away from them and further into… wherever she was. Where _was_ she? The room was pitch black and smelled stale and old; it was colder even than it had been in the great maze. She walked slowly, deliberately, hands out in trepidation, but she still nearly fell as she stumbled against a stone step. She felt her way up them, determined to get as far away from the doors as possible, but her head was pounding and her body ached and she swayed. She caught herself painfully on some sort of large, flat, stone protrusion and turned herself to flop onto it. She had to get farther into whatever this was. She wasn’t safe here. She wasn’t…

But her eyes fluttered closed and she lost herself, finally, to sleep.

*   *   *

His palace was dark and silent.

As it should be. He’d chained the doors shut and—just in case his demons got any ideas—had threatened severe punishment for anyone who thought his commands mere suggestions. He instinctively brushed ash from his shoulder as he strode through the doors, trying to scrub away some of the vestiges of humanity he’d acquired. He raised his hand, letting the flames rise, banishing the chill from the room. It was always too cold here unless, of course, you were currently on fire. There was a reason, besides the pun, why he’d chosen Los Angeles… He scowled. That life was dead now. He was home.

_Home_.

At _last_.

He could always go back to pick up Maze in a few decades when _her_ humans finally… He shook his head, trying to clear it but, before he could descend further into his melancholy, a sleepy murmur drew his attention up the grand staircase. A pale, limp hand hung down, fingers trailing against the stone. The figure was crumpled in sleep, moving restlessly, brushing its long blonde hair from its face. From _her_ face, from…

“ _Chloe_ … _?_ ”


	2. Ascension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, this is so, so late. It just wouldn't finish...
> 
> I hope you like it, dear giftee Luciferischloesmorningstar. I'm sorry it took so long.

“ _Chloe…?”_

Her eyes snapped open. Flames licked along the obsidian walls, a few of them darting out to caress Lucifer’s outstretched hand. _Lucifer_? He was… He had… wings? The fogginess overtook her again and she lost track of what was happening. She shook her head, then winced, the ache clearing her mind. The fire reflected back in his eyes as he fixed them on her. She tried to get up, but a concerning dizziness rose and she fell back onto… whatever she was half-lying, half-sitting on.

What _was_ she sitting on?

She craned her neck to look behind her and froze. A slab of onyx rose above her, intricately carved faces screaming their agony from between carefully engraved flames and strange ancient script. The arms curved up from the seat like great wings, vicious and chiropteran.

A chair. No… a _throne_.

_His_ throne.

She turned back around, head pounding again, trying to right herself. He was here. He was _here_ , and… They hadn’t seen each other since he’d killed Cain, since she’d run away from him. Was he angry? He had every right. She opened her mouth to… apologize? Maybe? But her words died as she met his raw gaze. His jaw was clenched, fingers shaking where he was half-reaching for her.

It wasn’t anger.

She watched the emotions play across his features. Relief, fear, joy, sorrow… He took a halting step toward her. “You…” he said, indistinctly, like it was the only word he had. He swallowed heavily.

She bit her lip, the pain helping to keep her in the moment. “Should I… get up?” She wasn’t sure if she could, but it seemed important to ask. _Lord Lucifer_. He was the ruler of this place, and she was just…an unbodied little soul. His focus settled back on her eyes, but he didn’t seem to hear. He staggered up the stairs, falling to his knees before her. She blinked at his hair as he bowed his head.

“Chloe,” he repeated. “ _Chloe_.” He’d never said her name this many times. It was… she didn’t know what it was. He looked back up at her—fear quirking his features—like he thought she might float away. Maybe she would, her brain was still… “You’re hurt.” He was staring at her hand, still clasped around the knife. The blade had cut into her palm when she’d grabbed it. Her arms and side were bleeding freely as well, scrapes welling red even as she watched.

“Huh…” she said, flatly. His hands hovered over her wounds and shook from the effort of not touching her. She blinked lethargically. “You… can…” The stone was ice against her skin. She was cold, _so_ cold. So cold she could barely…

His hands were gentle, but his touch shot through her like an electric shock, dragging her back to full consciousness and dispelling the cloudiness like it’d never been. She wasn’t remotely cold now, but nearly feverish as his fingers stroked up her arms, smoothly sealing the wounds. It was as if he was reaching into her essence and caressing the very heart of her and she felt herself flush as her awareness throbbed with sensation.

As he noticed her blush his eyes widened. He scrambled backward a few steps, breathing roughly. “I don’t… I…” he stuttered. His shoulders clenched and the wings abruptly disappeared.

“Wha… what did you do to me?” She got up unsteadily, leaning awkwardly against the throne. The _throne_! She’d seen irrefutable proof of his identity of course— _she was in Hell for God’s sake_ —but some part of her had still been, even now, in denial. But she could feel his… presence here. It pressed against her skin and made it feel tight.

He frowned. “It’s the mist. It rises from the river Lethe and inspires forgetfulness. I… banished it.”

She watched him fiddle with his ring, eyes averted, still so familiar despite everything that’d happened. He was… nervous? No, he was stalling; there was something terrible—besides the obvious—and he didn’t want…

_Oh_.

She hadn’t even considered…

“You can’t bring me back, can you?”

He looked up sharply, eyes flickering agitatedly. She thought he might run, but instead he squared his shoulders. “I _could_ ,” he said, but there was no reassurance in it. “But only in a… _fresh_ corpse.” He tilted his head in a shadow of his usual sardonicism.

“No!” She staggered, falling back onto the throne, too overcome to identify the odd glint in his eyes at the motion. And it _had_ been a kneejerk reaction, but as her brain caught up with her she realized she couldn’t steal someone else’s life, even if they _were_ dead. It wouldn’t be fair or right and if she couldn’t be _that_ , she wouldn’t even be _her_ anymore, would she? “No,” she repeated, quietly.

“Even for Beatrice?” he asked darkly.

Her heart felt like it was ripping apart, but… “I can’t do that to someone. I _can’t_.”

“I’ll fly to Heaven,” he said, frantic, wings extending in a rush, whipping around as he paced. “They can’t do this,” he murmured, more to himself than anything. “I’ll tear down the gates. I will _make_ them—”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“But—”

“Lucifer…” She knew, instinctively, it couldn’t be that easy. From all those conversations they’d had that she’d reviewed since… _seeing_ , she’d come to understand that there was very little he could do without consequence. And _nothing_ was worth putting everyone else in danger. “You _can’t_.”

He watched her then, still as a statue, that strange expression frozen on his face. “How did you come to be here?” he asked eventually, moving to sit on one of the adjacent stone steps.

She frowned. Was he angry after all? “I pulled the chain off the—”

“I mean…” He hesitated. “I know you went through one of the doors.”

_How did he know that?_ “I…” She took a deep breath. “I _hurt_ you,” she managed, voice breaking, everything that had happened crashing into her, her Hell stark as reality in her memories. “I never believed you even though I _knew_ you wouldn’t lie and… and I just… abandoned you when you’d _saved_ me and…”

His face seemed to crumple, the warmth in the depths of his eyes dying. “Y-you damned yourself because of… _me_?” he croaked. But then he shook himself, burying everything under a flat mask. “I apologize,” he said, almost coldly. “You don’t deserve this.”

And he swept from the room.

*   *   *

Time passed strangely in Hell.

Lucifer had only returned to Earth for a few hours to, presumably, square away her life. _And how awful was it that her life was a thing it only took a few hours to square away?_ She hadn’t worked up the courage to ask precisely what he’d done—he was different here than he’d ever been _there_ , less accessible, less… human—but he’d told her that Trixie and Dan and everyone else understood and were dealing as well as could be expected.

Maze hadn’t come back with him.

They fell, eventually, into an uneasy rhythm. Due to the many doors—whispering their promises and threats in her ear—and the demons that didn’t appreciate souls being outside their Hells, Chloe spent her time inside the palace. Lucifer had told her that while she didn’t technically need to eat or sleep, it wasn’t surprising that she still felt the urge. She’d wake up in what she’d decided to call ‘morning’ though the empty sky never did change; she’d eat her fill of the strange food he’d provided that never rotted or ran out—and she never felt so much like Persephone trapped in the underworld than she did eating his fruit and wine and honey cakes. She _hated_ it. Then she’d settle down in the massive library with a book or twelve in front of a great stone fireplace to ward away the ever-present chill. Sometimes, she’d explore the seemingly endless hallways. Lucifer’s interests were broader than she’d imagined, and she’d apparently barely scratched the surface in life; she resolved to, in death, do a better job at it. Lunch and dinner would pass with little mention and, if she was lucky, he might join her—weary from his uneasy reclamation of infernal sovereignty, ruling from the throne room he’d asked her to avoid, and failing entirely to hide the soul deep sorrow that never seemed to fully fade from his face.

She had been reading about the language of the angels when she recalled the strange script on his throne. She’d been searching, increasingly desperately, for some way to reconnect; if she was going to be stuck down here forever— _oh Hell, don’t think about that_ —she needed to try to repair their relationship. Lucifer, who she hadn’t seen in days, certainly wasn’t going to bring her an olive branch. So, struggling under a collection of personal journals of some guy named Dee in what she was persisting in calling ‘the dead of night,’ she headed carefully over to the stone wrought doors she hadn’t quite promised not to go through.

She listened intently at the threshold and, hearing nothing, pushed the doors open just enough to slip through. In the months— _years? It was impossible to tell_ —since she’d been here, she’d forgotten just how intimidating this room was, not to mention how frightening the throne itself was, shifting in shadow and firelight like the faces were following her in their abject horror, the tongues of flames reaching out to caress her. She shook her head deliberately. It was only Lucifer; no matter how distant and alien he’d become, she knew him.

She couldn’t be afraid.

She couldn’t let herself.

She sat a few steps above the throne only, she told herself, so she could view the back more effectively. She found an inscription and began the arduous process of transcription. Her high school Spanish wasn’t exactly _helpful_ , but she’d always been good with puzzles. She’d intended to write down all the script she could see and then return to the library but, as she shifted to look at the front, she froze.

Two phrases, nearly identical, curled their way along the curve of each winged arm. She recognized the words on sight; Dee had mentioned them often enough.

_The hand of the King_

But _King_ wasn’t exactly the right word. She dug through another journal, losing herself to the thrill of investigation. She’d missed this. The handwriting had grown increasingly frantic—she suspected it’d been written _after_ he’d ended up in Hell—but the analysis was much better than the earlier writings. The word on the right arm seemed to mean something like… executor—someone who carried out orders. And the left… adjudicator, maybe? Judge? But before she could consider further, a familiar voice echoed from down the stairs.

“It’s you again!”

She spun on her heel, facing the demon she’d met when she first arrived in this place. She was just as unarmed now as she’d been then. Hell was supposed to be _safe_ for her, after all. “You _know_ I know him now,” she breathed, calculating the distance to the demon, the distance to the door. _Where was Lucifer?_

“I don’t care,” it hissed, raising its arms to reveal deep, scarring burns. “He hurt me because of you!”

She hadn’t known. She hadn’t even thought _he’d_ known. But the demon broke her out of her thoughts, advancing, a new knife clutched in its bony fingers. Panicking, she did the only thing she could think of, slipping onto the throne. _When in doubt, act like you’re supposed to be there_. Her mom’s voice in her head. She straightened her back, trying to summon the regality she’d seen in Lucifer. “Leave me,” she said, with all the authority she could muster.

The demon hesitated, hand shaking almost imperceptibly. But it shook its head, taking another step forward.

She decided to change tack. “I know you were only doing your job,” she started, in a low voice. “Lucifer can be… overprotective. I’m sorry that he hurt you.”

“You’re…?” It frowned.

“I am.” And she was. She smiled at it as warmly as she could manage. “I’m a damned soul. You were just trying to fulfill your responsibilities. I can’t fault you for that.”

If anything, its frown deepened. “I don’t…”

“I never got to set the sentence when I was…” Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them back. “A lot of people I arrested didn’t deserve so much punishment. I wish I could fix that. I… I wish I could heal you.” And it was as if a small light was burning in her chest, warming her from the ever-present chill. But it wasn’t Lucifer’s bright and ardent fire, but a smaller, more measured flame. In the space between breaths the light filled the demon too, sealing its wounds like they’d never been.

It stared down at its own hands before looking up at her with something like awe, almost tripping as it fell to its feet. “M-my…” it stammered.

“What in Hell is going o—?” Lucifer stood in the threshold of the great doors, eyes wide, glancing between Chloe and the demon. It scrambled to its feet and scampered past him. He walked slowly up the grand staircase. He was looking at her like it was the first time he’d ever seen her, eyes shining, with that strange expression back on his face. He stopped a few steps below her, kneeling slowly, oddly ceremoniously. “My queen,” he breathed.

“…what?”

“You passed judgement on that demon,” he murmured.

“I’m not… I don’t…”

“You’ve been learning the celestial language,” he said, nodding his head toward the pile of journals—she hadn’t realized he’d noticed, almost thought he’d been ignoring her. He stood and approached the throne, running a finger across the inscription on the right arm. “Did you decipher this?”

“The hand of the… enforcer?”

He nodded, moving around the back of the throne. “And this?” he asked, touching the writing on the left arm nearly reverently.

“The judge?”

“I never wanted to decide the punishments.” He slipped back to his knees, looking up at her. He chuckled self-effacingly, reminding her more of how he used to be than he had in months. “I’m not any bloody good at it. But _you_ …”

“What? No, I don’t…”

“You just did.” He was grinning infuriatingly at her.

“I can’t…” She shook her head. “I can’t be your _queen_!”

The smile slid sickeningly off his face. “Of course,” he said, standing abruptly. “Of course. I… I apologize.” The door was slamming behind him before she could even open her mouth.

*   *   *

He was leaning against the wall in a high tower, framed in the meager light from the window in a way that looked practiced but, knowing him, probably wasn’t. This was his favorite place in the palace, she knew. As close to his stars as he could get; he had, after all, damned himself again to stay with her.

His head turned as she approached, hesitating in the doorway. “You can’t keep running away,” she said, into the silence.

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t…”

She sat, resting her head against the stone. “You haven’t really _talked_ to me since…” She shook her head, failing to keep the bitterness from rising. “Actually, I don’t think you’ve _ever_ really talked to me.”

He slid down the wall and turned toward her, eyes downcast, but he said nothing.

“You barely even see me for… however long I’ve been down here. Then, you show up and call me your queen! I just… I don’t _understand_ you.” She buried her face in her hands.

“I’m afraid,” he muttered, so quietly she thought she might be hearing things—she’d never heard his voice so soft, so… _pained_ , even when he’d pleaded with her when she’d reached for the scars on his back and her heart had first broken for him. Even when he’d whispered her name before he’d kissed her, before everything fell apart. But then he continued, “I have damned you to this place. You are trapped, _forever_ , with me. I… thought it a kindness not to inflict my presence on you.”

She frowned. “Being with you isn’t a _punishment_ , Lucifer.”

He breathed in sharply. “I can’t…” He looked up at her and she could see every emotion he’d been trying to hide from her, his soul finally laid bare. “I can’t lose you, but I don’t… you deserve better,” he said, as he always did, as he always _had_. “When you died I… I nearly lost myself. And I thought if I stayed away you couldn’t…”

She slid forward enough to brush her fingers against his knuckles. That odd, warm feeling shot through her again, but she forced herself to ignore it. He shivered, creeping backward even as he leaned, involuntarily, into her touch. “I don’t _want_ to leave you,” she said.

“I’m a monster,” he whispered, his skin cracking into fire and rawness even under her fingertips. She opened her mouth, but he cut her off. “And don’t tell me that I’m not. I _am_.”

She clutched his hand, drawing his burning gaze. “Then _you_ don’t tell me what _I_ deserve.” She tugged him forward, pressing her lips against his. He tasted of ash and iron, salt and smoke. His hand came up and she thought he might push her away, but he merely clung, desperately, to her shoulder. That little flickering light rose in her chest, in her fingertips that clutched at him and when she pulled away, flushed and panting, it was to his pale skin and dark curls.

He blinked at her, half-dazed, and reached out to brush her cheek in something like awe. “ _Love_ …” he murmured.

“Look,” she said, getting up and holding out a hand. “I don’t know about this… _queen_ business.” He looked at her warily. “But…” she continued. “We’ll figure it out. R-right?” Her confidence shook for a moment when he only stared, but then he smiled and it was more carefree than she’d ever seen it. The near stifling unearthliness of his presence seemed, for the first time, to grow gentler as he took her hand, rising to his feet.

“Yes,” he said. “We’ll… figure it out.”

*   *   *

And they did.

They ruled side by side; the King and Queen of Hell. Though not all was untroubled, of course. Lucifer was frustratingly obstinate even at the best of times and Chloe…

It’d been easier, before, to ignore the guilt. The fear.

The grief.

But now that they were… stable—more or less—the pain was so much harder to bury. Every repentant man, sobbing against the cold stone was Dan, pleading for mercy. Every woman, shaking in terror, was Linda. Or Ella. Or her mother, so afraid they couldn’t even move.

And the children… few as they were… she couldn’t…

She was watching herself in the mirror, exhausted from the seemingly never ending mob of damned souls—and wasn’t it strange how her weariness didn’t mark her as it would have in life, no deep shadows blooming under her eyes—when she saw him coming up behind her. He sighed. “I know this isn’t a… _perfect_ solution,” he said, wrapping his hands gently around her hips.

She laughed bitterly. “You think?” She shook her head, leaning back into him, trying to breathe evenly. “I’m sorry. I… I know you’d fix it if you could.” He opened his mouth to reply but her stomach interrupted him, growling quietly. She was more pleased than she’d ever admit that she still managed to hold onto these vestiges of the living.

“Shall we eat?” he asked, pulling away from her. He clapped his hands and the table groaned under ornate bowls and crystal goblets and shining silver platters. He made a little flourish with his hand and bowed his head and she laughed properly for the first time in months. His theatricality knew no bounds here and she was, as she always was, swept up in the maelstrom of his joie de vivre.

Or _joie de mourir_ , as it were.

But her good mood soured again as she settled down with a plate, staring at a pomegranate as she cut carefully into it. “You know,” she began, prying the fruit open and plucking out a few glittering arils. “Even Persephone didn’t have to stay in the underworld forever.” She took a gulp of wine, warming to her theme. “No, _she_ got half the year on Earth. _Half_.” She glared at the four little rubies of juice sitting in her palm. “A seed for every month down in the dark,” she muttered, closing her eyes against the wave of her sorrow.

“If I could make them mean that, darling, I’d…”

“I know.” She felt his hand on her knee and she shut her eyes tighter against the tears that pricked at them. Wanting to fill the silence, she threw back the pomegranate seeds, feeling them slip coldly down her throat. “I’d be glad to do this damn job if I could see Trixie again. I just… I miss her.” She sniffed, biting her lip to hold in the sobs. He pulled her into his arms and she felt his heart beat against her side, strong and steady.

And alone.

Sleep tore over her but, as was about to drift off, she felt a strange tug from her chest and heard Lucifer speak over her head. “Chloe…?”

Her eyes snapped open, only to close against the sudden glare. “What…?”

_“Chloe!”_ But his voice was barely an echo, flitting at the edge of her awareness.

And she knew nothing but light.

*   *   *

Chloe wrenched back into consciousness. Her back was wet with dew and her head was pounding and her vision was blurry as she forced her eyes open, blinking in the light of…

The sun?

She dragged herself up to stand, staring open mouthed at the grass, the trees—they were so much greener than she remembered. At Lucifer’s stars, fading into the dawn, and the most spectacular one of all, gleaming down at her from just over the horizon, bracketed in dark, rain-laden clouds that, even as she watched, dissipated into nothing. There was a rustle from behind her. She spun on her heel. Lucifer stood by a pale, tall stone—a gravestone; _her_ gravestone—wings shimmering in the morning light.

“Wha… what happened?” she asked, stepping forward to wrap her arms around him. He returned the embrace.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “You disappeared and I… I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Am I… still dead?”

His hand skimmed against her ribs to press over her heart; she felt it beat against his fingertips. His fingers slid up to frame her jaw, to lift her chin to meet his gaze. “No,” he breathed, confusion on his face. But the bewilderment gave way to joy and they laughed together, clinging to each other to keep from falling.

“I’m alive,” she said. “ _Alive_.” But then a horrible thought took root in her mind. “H-how long were we…?” She felt panic rise again; her time in Hell had felt like years. What if _she_ was alive, but Trixie…

A voice, not quite familiar, emanating from everywhere or nowhere, whispered to her from the air.

_“A seed for every month down in the dark.”_

And Lucifer looked up from his miraculously functioning phone, smiling like daybreak.

“Happy Easter, love.”


End file.
